


Fated meetings.

by ylc



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, M/M, One Night Stands, Pre-Canon, Sherlock is a prat, although in this Greg was never married, but he tries to be a good brother, technically
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-19
Updated: 2017-08-05
Packaged: 2018-12-04 07:16:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11550192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ylc/pseuds/ylc
Summary: “You don’t come here often.”A single phrase can change your life.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I really need to stop starting new fics, but I have no self control so… well, here we are!  
> I came up with this idea after listening to a song by La Oreja de Van Gogh, called “Una y otra vez” (spanish is my native language). I’d been meaning to write something in spanish since forever, but well… yesterday I sat down with the firm conviction that I was going to write it and I ended up with a beginning in english and it just flew so nicely that I decided not to fight the inspiration :P  
> So, without further ado, enjoy!

“You don’t come here often.”

Mycroft glances at his interlocutor, raising one eyebrow. He’s well aware he’s emitting the most  _ stay away  _ vibes in the history of humankind, so the one addressing him must be quite a brave soul. For that alone he doesn’t gesture for his security to deal with him, although it’s a near thing: it’s been a horrible day, after an awful week and so he’s not in the mood to talk to anyone at all.

“I rather think you’re phrasing that wrongly,” he says, proud of himself for not slurring his words. “I’m fairly certain you’re supposed to be asking if I come here often.”

The man smiles before dropping himself on the seat next to his. “No, I happen to know you don’t,” he says with an easy smile and Mycroft’s stomach does a funny turn. He frowns, examining his glass; has he been drugged? He’s nowhere near drunk enough for his stomach to be attempting acrobatics. “Greg Lestrade,” the man introduces himself, offering him his hand and Mycroft stares at it for too long. The man waits patiently, but when it becomes obvious he’s not going to shake it, he drops it to his side.

They sit in companionable silence, both taking measured sips from their respective drinks. The Detective Sergeant (obvious enough, even if Mycroft hadn’t caught a glance of his badge), is drinking a cheap beer, while Mycroft is drinking the most expensive whisky this establishment happens to sell (even if the quality isn’t what he’s used to). They must make an odd pair, he thinks, even without taking into consideration their looks or the way they’re dressed.

“Do you have a name?” his companion asks after what feels like a lifetime, turning to him expectantly. Mycroft watches him from the corner of his eye, before shrugging non committedly.

“Mycroft,” he introduces himself finally, leaving it at that. The other man stares at him as expecting something else, but Mycroft isn’t one for small talk or offering unasked information.

“Right,” the man says, smiling a bit tightly. Mycroft wonders why is he still sitting next to him, when there are far better prospects for what the man has in mind, sitting all around the bar, many of them actually eying him hopefully.

They lapse into silence once more. Mycroft isn’t bothered by it, but he’s curious about the man’s intentions. Recent break up, too much work, too much stress. He’s probably in the need to get laid, but he’s definitely not going to get lucky with Mycroft. Anyone would have picked on that by now and they would have left for brighter paths.

“You come here often?” he finds himself asking, without having really meant to and he blinks confusedly. Why has he just done that?

The other chuckles, turning to him once more, his small smile making him look not only ages younger, but unfairly handsome. Mycroft’s stomach flips once more and he tells himself it’s time to call it a night.

But-

“More or less, yes. It’s close to work and… well, sometimes a man just needs a drink, you know?”

Mycroft nods, although he really doesn’t. He’s never been one to indulge in substances that dull his brain, no matter how overwhelming sometimes it can get inside his head. Tonight though… well, tonight it’s been an odd night.

“Bad week?” Why does he keep asking questions? It isn’t like him to take an interest in a practical stranger and if he had, by some unfathomable reason, he could easily deduce anything he wants to know, so there’s no reason to actually ask, but-

A scoff. “You have no idea.” He has asked for another beer at some point and a waiter has just dropped the new one at their table. Mycroft chews on his lip gently, not sure if he really wants to do what he’s thinking.

“My place or yours?” he asks, definitely without thinking and the other man nearly chokes on his drink. He makes a face, displeased at the mess, but when he looks back at his companion’s face, all his irritation vanishes, as if by magic.

What was in that whiskey?

“I… umm… that is…” the detective takes a deep breath, recovering from his surprise and Mycroft allows his eyes to wander across his body. It’s been awhile since his last relationship (5 years or so) and he never cared much about sex to begin with, so he’s gone without it for just as long. Now though-

Funny. Just a few minutes ago he was thinking of how he definitely wasn’t going to sleep with the man and look at him now.

There must have been something in that whisky.

“Yours, if you don’t mind? It’s just… I don’t… my place isn’t exactly…” He gestures vaguely and Mycroft nods. Right, how could he miss it? He’s crashing at a friend’s place, so the break up must be even more recent than he originally believed.

“Shall we?” he says, standing up and gesturing majestically, as if he knew what he’s doing, as if he did this on regular basis and therefore wasn’t nervous.

The man (Greg, that’s his name and he ought to remember it if he’s going to sleep with him. It’s only polite to call your bedfellow by name, isn’t it?) stands up and follows after him, looking around as if he can’t quite believe what’s happening. Mycroft doesn’t blame him, since he can barely believe it either.

And yet it is happening.

When he asked his driver to pull over at this bar, he hadn’t been expecting his night to end like this. And yet, fate has a funny way to work around people’s convictions.

They exit the bar and Greg seems to hesitate when he notices the bodyguards following them. Mycroft dismisses them with a wave of his hand and they step back, giving them some semblance of privacy. His companion swallows nervously and Mycroft realizes why was he “talking” to him: he thought he needed to get laid (probably several someones had suggested as much) but his heart hadn’t really been at it. He had sat next to an impossible target, telling himself that that way he could at least say he tried and get people of his back. Now that it’s actually happening though-

“Have you changed your mind?” Mycroft asks, opening the car’s door and waiting patiently. He surprises himself by how disappointed he feels, but he promptly pushes the feel away. It’s ridiculous and irrational and-

“No,” Greg says, straightening up his back, nodding to himself. “No, I haven’t.”

Mycroft watches him as he climbs into the car and considers. Has he changed his mind?

He gets in the car too.

What a curious night.

* * *

 

They travel in silence, both gazing outside the window thoughtfully. Mycroft allows his thoughts to wander, briefly asking himself why did he even think this was a good idea. He’s not really interested in the prospect of sex, although he’d admit to himself that Mr. Lestrade is a fine specimen. He risks a glance in the other man’s direction, taking in his form once more before nodding to himself approvingly. If one day he was going to lost the battle to his troublesome hormones like some teenager, he really couldn’t have chosen a better partner.

But the truth is he doesn’t feel  _ giddy  _ at the thought of what comes next. He doesn’t feel anything much, actually, although that’s not to say he doesn’t want to do this. It’s crazy and out of character and something that if he had actually stopped to think about he would have never proposed it, but now that they’re here…

Well, there’s no harm in carrying on, is there? He’s a grown man, not a silly teenager, so his ridiculous hormones are not about to convince him he’s suddenly madly in love with a perfect stranger, no matter how handsome said stranger is. Tomorrow, this will be nothing but a fond memory of a night when he had perhaps too many drinks and he was too lonely and frustrated to do anything much. Tomorrow his little… indiscretion would have past, not to be thought about in a long while.

He taps his fingers against his knee, thinking of his last relationship. He has little interest in people; as far as he’s concerned, he and the rest of humankind have little in common. He once told Sherlock he’s a man living in a world of goldfish and that holds true years later. Therefore is perfectly logical he has little interest in relationships, since he and the rest of humanity are practically different species.

His last relationship had been… difficult. He’s not prone to displays of emotion of any kind, so his last partner had constantly complained about feeling neglected. Mycroft had seen his point, but he had had no wish to change and so it had been easier to call the whole thing off. It’s not like he had felt particularly satisfied with the relationship either: his physical needs were practically non-existent and he was perfectly capable of taking care of himself when they did manifest; as for other type of affection… well. He had learn to make do with little to none from a very young age.

He looks at the other man once more and he wonders what he’s expecting to get from tonight. Further proof that he really doesn’t need this type of thing, perhaps, although it seems a weird approach; one that his brother would take, but never him. His head does feel a bit funny however and so the drugged whisky theory keeps getting more and more feasible. Although if that was the case…

He chuckles quietly to himself and his companion turns to look at him surprised, one eyebrow arched. As assassins go, Greg doesn’t really look like one. He looks like a friendly, genuinely kind type of man and while Mycroft knows looks can be deceiving, there’s nothing about this particular man that suggests he could something other than what he says he is (although he hasn’t said much, to be honest). It wouldn’t do to get careless, of course and so he’ll make sure his security systems are activated as soon as they enter his flat, but that’s merely a precaution. He knows instinctively he’s not in any danger.

Mycroft waves a hand dismissively and after a beat, Greg turns back to his contemplation of the sidewalk. Mycroft is fairly certain this isn’t how this sort of affairs are usually conducted and he’s almost sure they should be at the very least kissing, but he feels no urge to do so and apparently neither does his partner. He wonders if they’ll actually end up having sex, or if they’re going to end up drinking some more and watching crap telly. It’s a tempting prospect, to be completely honest and the thought startles him: just what the hell is wrong with him tonight? He’s never cared for domesticity and he’s certainly never fantasied with having a partner waiting for him at home, with whom just relax. In fact, such ideas have always struck him as something out of books or movies, not something that should actually happen in real life and yet-

“What was in that whisky?” he asks himself out loud, without really meaning to and his companion turns to him once more, looking at him questioningly. Mycroft shakes his head and attempts to smile reassuringly, although he’s not quite sure he succeeds. He turns to stare outside the window once more, hoping to distract himself from his troubling thoughts and notices they’re just a few minutes away from his home.

They’ve been in silence all this while, but it suddenly feels oppressive. He loosens his tie and undoes the top button in an effort to get more air and he notices Greg is looking at him once more with open interest. He’s not quite sure what the other man sees in him, since he knows he’s not exactly what most people would consider attractive, but he’s not about to complain. If anything, knowing his partner does find him attractive helps him relax fractionally.

He can do this. He’s doing this. It was his idea in the first place, actually, so he should definitely be able to pull it off. He has discovered that if you act as if you know exactly what you’re doing, people will actually believe you do, and they’ll follow your lead happily, so he just needs to approach this as he approaches every other problem in life: faking it until he makes it.

“Shall we?” he says smoothly, once the car has come to a stop outside his building and his driver opens the door for them. He slips out of the car and offers his hand to his companion, who takes it somewhat warily. He looks nervous, probably as nervous as Mycroft himself feels and he tells himself this might work after all: neither is certain what to expect and therefore, the chance of disappointment is low.

He smiles as he offers the other man his arm and they make their way towards the entrance. The building is located in one of the most luxurious neighborhoods and it’s just as sumptuous as the ones surrounding it. Greg looks a little out of his depth, but he puts on a brave face and smiles somewhat flirtatiously when Mycroft turns to look at him. Mycroft smiles back, thinking he does like the man, although he has no delusions of seeing him ever again. For some reason, the thought makes him feel a pang of regret.

Curiouser and curiouser.

They finally make it to his floor and he’s eternally thankful of his electronic key, since his fingers feel incredibly clumsy and he doesn’t think he could use an actual key. He opens the door and allows the other in first, taking a few seconds to gather his wits about him and take a deep breath before following him inside. Greg smiles once more, hesitant, before awkwardly placing his arms around his waist, simply letting them rest there, breathing quietly.

Mycroft hesitates for a beat before doing the same, although the embrace does feel entirely too awkward, and he leans down for a single chaste kiss.

They both chuckle nervously and Mycroft has never felt this awkward. Even his first time, he hadn’t felt this unprepared for what was coming. And yet, it’s nice in a way he can’t quite explain and it does make him want more, even  _ ache _ for it.

“Bedroom?” he asks softly, pulling away a little and his companion bites his lip, but nods and gestures for him to lead the way.

Mycroft does.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here’s a new chapter! Of course I went back and write more; when have I been ever capable of holding myself back? :P  
> Oh well, I hope you’ll enjoy it! I didn’t get around writing actual smut, but I do like how this one goes ;)

“Are you… is this… is everything alright?”

“Yes,” Mycroft deadpans, with the tone people use to explain something they have already explained a hundred times before, but their interlocutor is a bit dense to really get it. In this particular case, he hasn’t actually explained anything, not a single time, to his… partner?, but he already knows how the conversation is going to go and he’s not looking forward to it. “Everything is perfectly alright. Please do carry on.”

Greg seems terribly unconvinced. Oh dear god, he’s really going to need to explain; he hears people complaining about selfish lovers all the time, why couldn’t he get himself one of those?

“It’s fine. Carry on, I promise I’ll enjoy it.”

“You know, that’s not exactly reassuring,” the other man says, sitting back on his heels, still kneeling between Mycroft’s legs. Mycroft sighs, pushing himself upwards on his elbows and staring intently at the other man.

“I assure you I’m fine. And I’m enjoying your attentions, it’s just… I’m not very expressive.”

Greg huffs, crossing his arms over his chest. “See, I somehow doubt that. I mean, sure, some people are very quiet in bed, but you just look… bored.”

“Distracted,” Mycroft corrects simply, earning himself a raised eyebrow and he sighs dramatically, dropping himself back against the pillows. “I have many things on my mind.”

“Right. Well, then-”

“I  _ always  _ have many things on my mind,” Mycroft interrupts sharply, glaring at the ceiling in frustration. “I can’t turn this off,” he says, gesturing towards his head. “So I… I get distracted. But I generally enjoy the sensations and if you do something particularly interesting, or painful I suppose… trust me, I’ll notice.”

His companion looks horrified and Mycroft pinches the bridge of his nose, wondering how to phrase this so they can carry on with what they were doing. He enjoys sex in a vague sense and he does find his current partner much more pleasing than some of his exes, but what he said is true: he can’t turn off his brain to properly enjoy it.

So, sex, as well as other bodily mantinience activities, he does them mostly in autopilot. He notices a particularly tasty meal, or a warm relaxing shower after a taxing day, but he’s not focused on that. His attention wanders off to more pressing matters than his body’s needs but it doesn’t mean he doesn’t have needs so…

Well. Surely there’s a lot to be said about that, but it works for him.

“So let me get this straight,” Greg says, still looking conflicted. “You expect me to simply carry on and not mind you’re basically just lying here, unresponsive?”

“I’m not…” Mycroft protests vehemently, gesturing at his by now flagging erection. “As I said, I do enjoy what we’re doing. I’m just not paying a lot of attention.”

“Wow. You really know how to make a guy feel special.”

This was a bad idea. He knew that already, of course, but now he’s firmly convinced. In all his previous relationships, after weeks of _ putting up with him _ , his partners usually figured they were entitled to be as selfish as they wanted in bed, so this wasn’t an issue. Mycroft just made sure to make all the appropriate noises at all the appropriate moments, because he knows utter silence can be more than a bit unnerving and he would happily continue thinking about whatever he needed to be thinking about, while his body got the physical stimulation it was craving.

He does like sex. He just doesn’t find it terribly interesting.

“This isn’t happening, is it?” he asks when the silence has stretched by far too long to be encouraging.

His companion seems to be thinking long and hard about his answer. Mycroft doesn’t think it’s something that needs that much meditating on, but he keeps quiet. It seems fair enough.

“Let me… try something.”

Oh. He’s thinking of this as a challenge. Well, there’s no harm in letting him try whatever he wants. It’s only fair, he supposes, and he realizes he does want him to try. He likes this man entirely too much to simply let him go. “Alright,” he agrees quietly, trying to keep his thoughts from wandering. His focus won’t last much, he knows, but it’s only polite.

Oh. Well. That’s… “I told you I’d notice if you did something particularly interesting,” he says, a bit breathless, his blood suddenly thrumming with desire. It might not last, but it’s particularly thrilling.

It seems this crazy idea of his might not turn out to be as crazy as he first thought.

If nothing else, it’ll prove to be an interesting memory.

* * *

 

It’s definitely an interesting experience.

In all truth, Mycroft has always taken the passive role in all his previous sexual encounters not out of personal preference, but because it required little effort on his part. It might not be what most people would consider  _ a good reason _ , but he was perfectly content with his choice.

But Greg doesn’t allow him to be passive. The way he kisses him and the way he maneuvers him and generally the way he approaches sex is like nothing Mycroft has ever known before. And it’s pleasurable and even more curious,  _ engaging  _ and it forces him to pay attention, even when a particular stubborn notion tries to get his attention and distract him from the matter at hand.

And it’s funny, because he has come to realize that while he has always taken pleasure in the act itself, he had never cared about his partners: as far as he was concerned, all his lovers were perfectly interchangeable. And the revelation should be troubling, because he had never noticed it before and yet nothing ever escapes his notice long, but he can’t bring himself to care, not really, not when his current partner is kissing him like he’s the most precious thing in the world and as if he could not think of a single thing he’d rather be doing.

It’s more than a little thrilling.

The problem, he reckons, it’s that it can’t possibly last forever and while his body is craving orgasm, he tries to hold himself back as much as he possibly can, if only to delay the inevitable for a little longer.

But all good things come to an end.

And while the post orgasmic rush of hormones is as pleasant as ever and his body feels as boneless as usual, there’s something else that he can’t explain but that he feels deep in his soul: a deep satisfaction that he can’t shake off, his mind happily blank, as if he had no other pressing concerns.

It’s most curious, really. He wonders if he should feel concerned.

But he promptly shakes the thought away because it’s a once in a lifetime thing, so why should it matter?

* * *

 

_ You’re just like your mother,  _ his second boyfriend had told him.

The relationship had been going downhill for a long time by that point, so breaking up had seemed like a perfectly logical follow up to such conversation. Mycroft might have made sure that his life was miserable afterwards, but he had been young and petty and he hadn’t known better. Besides, his previous boyfriend (meaning the first one), had left him feeling vulnerable and raw and he had determined he’d never let anyone make him feel that way again, not without paying dearly for it.

While he knew he should have dismissed the entire conversation as something born out of anger and frustration at what his partner perceived as indifference, he couldn’t shake the thought away. It haunted him as no previous taunts had, making him question every now and then if he had turned into his mother after all.

Back home expressions of affection had been non existent. Polite interest was the most he ever got from his mother, never a hug or a caress or even a gentle pat on the shoulder that he could remember. He hadn’t thought it important, at least not until Sherlock was old enough to question it and then he began to really feel the absence of his mother’s affection. But he had promptly locked that feeling away, telling himself it didn’t matter.

Their father used to tell Sherlock that Mummy didn’t mean to be cruel or distant, she just wasn’t wired that way.

Maybe he isn’t wired that way either. 

Which is why he had decided to stop dating 5 years ago. It didn't feel right to do as his mother had, dragging other people into her misery just so she wouldn't be lonely. And he had thought he had been doing quite well, perfectly at ease with just his own company, at least until tonight. He didn’t realize he had been craving for something and now that he has realized it, he’s not quite convinced he can let this man go. Which is a completely unfair expectation, since they both agreed to a night of mutual pleasure and nothing more.

And yet-

“Do you happen to have a cigarette?” he asks and surprises himself by how badly he wants a smoke: the day his brother overdosed for the first time, Mycroft had quitted smoking, horrified at the very prospect of ever becoming as dependant on a substance as his brother. Most people would have argued it wasn’t the same, but then, Mycroft wasn’t  _ most people. _

“Sorry,” Greg says with a sheepish smile. “I’m trying to quit,” he explains, sounding somewhat embarrassed and Mycroft nods absentmindedly.

“How is that going?” he asks, although he knows the answer already. However, now that they’re… done, the silence between them feels a bit charged and so he figures small talk is the best he can do right now.

Greg chuckles. “Not very well, truth to be told. I don’t buy my own packets anymore, but I end up asking my colleagues for one, so… another failure, I suppose.”

Mycroft hums, assuming he’s referring to his recent break up. Telling him it wasn't his fault his girlfriend was cheating on him would probably not be welcome (particularly since Mycroft isn't supposed to know that). Unfortunately his mind keeps coming up blank when he tries to come up with another topic, and so they lapse into silence, despite his desire not to do so.

“Well, that was… it was great, really,” Greg is saying as stands up, already looking for his scattered clothes and Mycroft holds back a sigh. He knew how this night was ending, he has no right to feel disappointed.

Besides, it’s probably for the best.

“Early morning?” he asks, lounging luxuriously against the pillows, watching as the other man dresses. He’s really a fine specimen, even though Mycroft isn’t prone to notice such things. Maybe-

But no. He sharply reminds himself he doesn’t do relationships for a reason and he’s not about to begin making exceptions. It won’t end well for anyone involved and he’d rather keep this as a lovely memory, untainted by regrets.

“Yes,” his partner tells him, hunting for his shoes beneath the bed. “I’d love to stay, but I don’t think I’d get any sleep that way,” he says with a sheepish smile and Mycroft rolls his eyes.

“Don’t get so cocky, Sergeant Lestrade. I did enjoy that, but your charm might not work a second time. My attention is a precious commodity.”

“I somehow don’t doubt that,” he tells him with a filthy smile that makes Mycroft’s heartbeat pick up speed, at least until he notices the frown marring the man’s handsome features. “How did you- I didn’t tell you that.”

Oh, right. Letting people know you can deduce their life story at first glance is a bad idea. “I saw your badge,” Mycroft says, as calmly as he can, smiling winningly. “I made an educated guess.”

“Yeah?”

Mycroft shrugs and the other laughs before leaning down for a kiss that grows heated in a few seconds. Damn, Mycroft really doesn’t know how is he going to let him go. 

Greg finally pulls away, smiling at him and heading towards the door. Mycroft watches him, wondering if he should walk him to the door, but he fears that if he does that he’ll be tempted to just lock them in here forever (or at least until the morning).

Greg hesitates at the bedroom’s entrance, seemingly reluctant to go. He wants to say something, Mycroft just isn’t sure what, and he doesn’t dare to speak. Finally Greg shakes his head and then slips out of the room, not saying another word.

And that's that.

* * *

 

A lovely memory not tainted by regrets, indeed.

It's been a week since his late night encounter and Mycroft hasn’t been able to stop thinking about it. Not often, mind, since he does have many other things to think about but often enough for it to be puzzling. No other man has interested him as much and the worst part is that he doesn't even  _ know  _ him, not really. His initial deductions are usually good enough to get him by, but in this case, he finds himself wanting to know Greg better.

Curiouser and curiouser.

He's tempted to look for the man. It wouldn't be hard, even if he knew next to nothing about him and with the information he has, it’d be laughably easy. Still, he resists temptation: it's not what they had agreed on.

To be fair, they didn't agree to anything.

But the implication of a one night stand is to never see that person again and in any case, it's not like Mycroft can offer an actual relationship, even if Greg wanted that.

No regrets, indeed.

* * *

 

“Do you remember Elliot?”

“Ugh,” Sherlock says, making a face and gesturing for the bartender to pour him another drink. Mycroft arches an eyebrow questioningly and his brother huffs. “I need another drink if we’re going to discuss your lovelife,” he informs him very seriously, nodding at the bartender one he has his new drink. “Or what passes as lovelife in your case.”

Mycroft sighs, taking a long sip from his own drink. “Forget it.”

“No, no,” Sherlock argues, finishing his drink and asking for another. “You brought it up, so obviously something is troubling you. Just- don’t overshare.”

Mycroft chuckles humorlessly, shaking his head. He’s half regretting having brought the subject up: while their respective love lives might be a normal subject for normal siblings to discuss, there’s nothing  _ normal  _ about his and Sherlock’s relationship. Still, he finds himself wanting to confide in someone and while Sherlock might use the information to tease him endlessly or as some sort of leverage, he’d never use it to deliberately hurt him.

Small blessings and all that.

“So, Elliot?” Sherlock prompts, looking for all intents and purposes as if he’d rather be back in rehab than here. The idea makes Mycroft frown but his brother just rolls his eyes dramatically, gesturing for him to continue and he decides to let it go for now.

“He once told me I was just like Mother,” he says softly, staring at his now empty glass, feeling uncharastically insecure.

Sherlock scoffs, scrunching his nose in displeasure. “That’s rough. I think I’d rather take a knife right through the gut than being compared to dear old  _ Mummy _ .” He shakes his head as he finishes another drink and Mycroft wonders briefly if his brother has changed one addiction for another. “I hope you dumped his sorry ass right afterwards.”

“He got what was coming to him,” Mycroft agrees quietly and Sherlock raises an eyebrow, amused.

“Does that mean he’s sleeping with the fish at the Thames? If there are still fish there, of course.”

“Nothing quite as dramatic,” Mycroft protests, smiling ruefully. “But that’s not important. My point was-”

“Do I think you’re like Mummy?” Sherlock finishes for him, holding his stare for the first time in their whole conversation and Mycroft can’t help squirming a bit on his seat. Sherlock huffs once more. “Mycroft, I- You’re bad at showing emotion,” he says, not unkindly but Mycroft finds himself clenching his jaw anyway. “But you’re not like her. I know you actually give a damn.”

That’s the closest as some form recognition for all he has done for his little brother he’s ever going to get and Mycroft will take it. He smiles at his brother, squeezing his forearm once and Sherlock rolls his eyes once more.

“Alright then, enough of that,” Sherlock murmurs, pulling away, looking distinctly uncomfortable. They never learned to express their affection, nor to receive it and while they both crave it, they don’t know what to do with it. “What brought this up, anyway?” he asks, aiming to keep his tone nonchalant.

Mycroft considers his answer carefully, not sure how much he wants to share. “I met someone,” he confesses and can immediately feel himself flushing with embarrassment. He sounds… _ juvenile _ ; a boy with a crush he doesn’t know how to control.

Sherlock smirks and Mycroft can almost hear the teasing remark, but his brother doesn’t say anything of the sort. “Good,” it’s all he says, smile perhaps a tad tense, but looking honestly pleased and Mycroft’s heart swells with affection. It’s not the response he’d have expected from his brother, but it fills him with warmth.

Mycroft smiles once more, before ordering another drink and they sit in silence for a bit, both lost in their thoughts. Mycroft watches his brother, taking in his new appearance and nods to himself approvingly: Sherlock has gained weight and he’s obviously sleeping better. There’s no nervous energy that betrays he’s high or aching to get high and while he looks far from cured, he’s willing to count it as progress. “How is your new… hobby going?” he asks finally and Sherlock sends a dark glare in his direction.

“It’s not a hobby,” he sneers. “It’s an actual job. We can’t all make a living out of ruling the country, can we?”

Mycroft shrugs. If Sherlock wanted, he’d be happy to take him under his wing, but he knows that’s the last thing his brother wants. “I take it it’s going well, then?”

Sherlock smiles and scowls a second later, evidently not wanting Mycroft to know just how much he’s enjoying his new  _ job.  _ “It’s pretty dull at points and sometimes people just refuse to see what’s right in front of them but well… it has its bright points.”

Mycroft nods thoughtfully. “And you’re still occasionally  _ consulting _ with that Detective from Scotland Yard?”

“And several others,” his brother informs him proudly, preening like a peacock and Mycroft is hard pressed not to beam at him. It occurs to him belatedly that Sherlock might know Sergeant Lestrade and he’s half tempted to ask, but quickly shakes the thought away. He has already decided not to reach out for the man and he’s going to keep his resolution, even if he feels like he’s slowly dying inside.

“I’m happy for you, Sherlock,” he says and he means it, which earns him a small, barely there, smile and a just as small nod.

Life is good, he supposes.

Not perfect, but good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thoughts anyone?  
> I’m a bit unsure about the first part, but as I’ve said before, I don’t fight inspiration ;) And I do like it, so there’s that…  
> I should apologize for giving the boys crappy parents (again) but I’m really never going to get over that damn scene on TFP and I need to work it out of my system somehow. So writing the Holmes as bad parents will have to do! :P  
> I’m currently trying to decide whether to keep this a short fic or if I want to turn into a longer one. The thing is I have no much idea of what to write plot-wise, so… we’ll see if inspiration hits, I suppose ;)  
> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you thought?


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here’s a new chapter!  
> I wanted to work on some of my other WIPs, but I might have been listening a little too often to the song that inspired this fic in the first place and well… here we are!  
> Enjoy!

It’s definitely a change, but he’s not convinced it’s for the better.

On one hand, he’s focused on the sex and on his partner instead of thinking of the million things that should take precedence over his body’s needs. On the other hand, he’s focused on the sex and his partner because he’s comparing him to his last partner, the man that he can not forget and keeps on haunting his nights and, more worryingly, his days.

God, what a mess.

It’s not exactly unpleasant, in fact it’s quite nice, but as ever, his current partner is completely interchangeable. And he thinks he should have known better than to bed this particular man, since he’s likely to imagine he has some sort of power over Mycroft now and that will lead to nothing but unpleasant interactions from now on.

He needs to learn to pick his lovers better.

The mere idea makes his stomach roll. What was he thinking, anyway? That his sudden interest in Greg Lestrade meant he had developed an interest in other people? That if he slept around enough he’d eventually forget about that one amazing night they had shared?

Well, it’s certainly having the opposite effect.

He’s glad when it’s over and he’s contemplating how to escape the situation without it looking like that’s exactly what he’s doing, when he hears the front door opening. His companion turns to look at him, startled and perhaps worried and Mycroft rolls his eyes, grabbing his nightgown and heading for the living room, where he finds his little brother inspecting his wine cabinet.

Sherlock spares a quick glance in his direction and scrunches his nose in displeasure, before opening one of the wine bottles and taking a long sip. “Yep,” Sherlock says, inspecting the bottle closer. “This’ll do.”

“What are you doing here, Sherlock?” Mycroft asks, feeling tired already and sitting down on the couch, trying to look as calm and collected as a man wearing just a nightgown can. 

“I think you’ve got the order wrong,” Sherlock says, taking another sip from the bottle and Mycroft holds back a disgusted sneer. “You’re supposed to sleep with politicians in order to get to the top; no reason to do it when you’re already there.”

From the direction of the bedroom comes the sound of his companion getting dressed and Mycroft rubs his temples tiredly. This night just keeps getting better and better.

They sit in silence for a while and finally his partner appears at the bedroom’s threshold, staring awkwardly at Sherlock. Mycroft stares at him in silence, wondering if he’s expecting him to make introductions and finally the man seems to figure out he should just leave and he does exactly that, slamming the door after himself.

“I thought you said you had met someone,” Sherlock says, sounding honestly concerned and Mycroft frowns, turning to him. “Didn’t that work out?”

Mycroft taps his fingers against his chin, wondering how to reply to that. “It wasn’t meant to be,” he answers finally and Sherlock frowns, but doesn’t comment, simply taking another long sip from his wine bottle. “What are you doing here, brother mine?”

Sherlock seems to mull his answer, finally taking a seat on the couch armrest. “Lestrade might have beat me to make an arrest,” he confesses, as if embarrassed and Mycroft tries to ignore the way his heart is now beating erratically.

So his brother does know Sergeant Lestrade.

“What happened?” he settles for asking, not wanting to give away his personal interest on the Sergeant. The last thing he needs is for Sherlock to know he has developed an  _ infatuation  _ on one of the men he regularly works with.

Sherlock doesn’t seem to notice the entirely too long pause he made before asking his question and huffs, crossing his arms over his chest, looking like a petulant child. “He figured out where the murderer was hiding before I did. Or maybe at the same time, but he made it there first, so…” His lips are a thin line, frustration radiating from him in waves and Mycroft is hard pressed not to laugh.

Only Sherlock would get this upset over something like that.

“It’s sort of his job, though,” Mycroft points out, leaning back on his seat, aiming to look relaxed. “You can not get upset over the police doing their actual job.”

“But I gave them all the information they needed!” Sherlock protests dramatically, standing up and waving his hands exaggeratedly. “It was practically my case. They would have never figured it out without me.”

Mycroft wonders where did his brother learn things were meant to go his way. He certainly didn’t do it at their parents’ knees. “Sherlock, you helped them to catch a murderer. Why does it matter if you weren’t the one doing the actual arrest? Particularly since, you know, you’re not technically allowed to do such thing in the first place.”

His brother looks at him as if he’s the one being deliberately dense and Mycroft sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Sherlock… it really doesn’t matter. They know what you did, they know they need your help. They’ll call you again.”

He hopes that that insecurity is the source of Sherlock’s bad mood, because he has no idea what else he can possibly say to make his brother feel better.

Sherlock nods tightly, although he doesn’t look exactly convinced and Mycroft holds back a sigh. This…  _ hobby  _ of his has become his anchor and it has kept him away from the drugs, so by all means Mycroft wants him to continue doing it, but he also doesn’t want him to overthink it.

“You can stay here tonight, if you want,” he offers, unsure of what else he can say and Sherlock nods, heading into the guest bedroom without another word, taking his bottle of wine with him. Mycroft clenches his jaw, telling himself that if his brother has decided to take comfort in alcohol instead of drugs, it’s still a progress and far more manageable.

It’s not a very reassuring thought though.

* * *

 

He abandons any pretence of sleep somewhere around 2 o’clock, finally standing up and taking off his sheets, dropping them at the laundry basket. The bed still smells wrong and so does he, so he figures a shower, or perhaps a long bath, should do the trick.

As he lies in the tub, staring at the ceiling and contemplating his life choices, he wonders if contacting Greg Lestrade is really a bad idea. He can’t get the man out of his head, so maybe he should give up on trying to forget him. But he quickly reminds himself that he could never possibly offer an actual relationship, that he’s as far from ideal partners as they come and so he dismisses the idea once more.

It wouldn’t be fair. It wouldn’t be right.

And yet-

The more he turns the idea inside his head, the more bleak the future looks. He imagines he’ll get used to this gaping hole inside his chest, although right now it’s a little difficult to imagine such day will come. Which is all kinds of ridiculous, really. What does he know about the man, anyway?

A bit younger than himself (by just 5 months, in fact, according to the official records that Mycroft couldn’t stop himself from checking out), recently promoted to Sergeant and said promotion and its erratic schedule might have caused his previous relationship to end (or rather, that’s the cause the ex girlfriend cited to justify all her cheating). Thoughtful, insightful,  _ considerate.  _ Stubborn. Dedicated. 

Huh. It seems he knows a little more than he originally thought.

But he doesn’t  _ know  _ him, not really. Doesn’t the saying goes that you never fully know a person? And Mycroft has never believed that, not really, because the real important things are so easy to notice, if you know how and where to look for and everything else matters so little in the great scheme of things, so-

But he wants to know. He wants to know every one of those little, unimportant,  _ silly  _ details that make Greg Lestrade himself. He wants to know him in and out and isn’t that the most ridiculous thing ever?

He can’t. He knows he can’t. As Father used to say, he’s simply not wired that way. Even if Greg was amenable to a relationship with him, he’d never be good enough for him. It’d end, sooner or later, and that would just hurt worse.

He _ knows _ this. There’s absolutely no chance that it could ever work and if all the odds are against him, then why would he even consider giving it a try?

The problem is, he realizes, that he can’t stop himself from wandering down the path of  _ what ifs. _ Even if he knows where that path leads, he can’t stop himself from entertaining the possibility that it’ll lead somewhere different. Which of course is pure foolishness, absolute craziness and yet-

He clearly made a mistake that night and now he’s paying for it dearly. And the very worst, the thing that won’t let him rest and that tortures him night and day is that he’s not quite sure which one was his mistake: inviting him over or letting him go?

And the heart of the matter, isn’t it?

* * *

 

He’s not going to ask Sherlock about Sergeant Lestrade.

He’s not.

He’s not a silly boy with a silly crush. He’s a grown up man, mature enough to deal with his infatuation without having to ask his baby brother for _ gossip _ . Besides, if he does ask Sherlock, he’ll never hear the end of it.

“Are you feeling better?” he asks as he pours them both some tea, placing it on the table. He rarely eats at home, so he has nothing in the fridge but he does keep tea and coffee in great quantities on the off chance of someone visiting.

Sherlock makes a noise that could be an agreement and Mycroft doesn’t press. His brother was never a morning person, but he becomes marginally more willing to talk after a cup or two of his favorite brew.

“I’ve come to realize that while the Yarders might show an occasional glimpse of brainpower, they’re evidently lost without me,” Sherlock declares grandly, after he has finished his cup. “So I won’t hold this particular case against them.”

“How generous,” Mycroft says, taking a sip from his own drink. “I’m sure the Sergeant will be relieved.”

Sherlock huffs, slightly amused and then frowns, narrowing his eyes at him. “I never mentioned Lestrade was a Sergeant.”

Damn. “It seemed like a logical leap. The Inspector’s last name is Gregson, so I knew he wasn’t the one who made the arrest. A Sergeant seemed more plausible than a Constable, although I could have been wrong, of course.”

Sherlock looks unconvinced, but he doesn’t say anything, choosing to pour himself another cup of tea instead. Mycroft holds his stare easily, proud of himself for managing to keep his brother in the dark.

Or at least he hopes he has managed that. The last thing he needs (or wants) is to have his brother  _ involved  _ in his love life. And rest assured he’ll start meddling if he finds out the truth and while Mycroft isn’t quite sure what he’ll do, he knows he won’t appreciate it.

“I better get going,” Sherlock says, finishing his tea. “Now that that particular case is done, I need to finish those that actually pay the bills.” He makes a face, inspecting his empty cup. “It’s just so  _ boring _ . I can solve most without even leaving my flat.”

Mycroft nods absentmindedly. He has his own pressing concerns and his brother’s inability to stay entertained is no longer as concerning as it once was.

He listens to the door opening and closing and he looks around the empty flat as he finishes his tea. He forces himself to stay focused and not let his thoughts wander down forbidden paths once more, but he suspects that’s a long lost battle.

The real question then is, what is he going to do now?

* * *

 

Time passes, as it usually does and life seems to have settled down. Mycroft finds himself thinking less and less often about Greg Lestrade. He hasn’t managed to purge all thoughts of him completely out of his system, but he imagines he’s doing a fantastic job, all things considered.

And then of course Sherlock has to ruin all his hard work.

Apparently his dear brother decided going after a very dangerous murderer all on his own was a perfectly reasonable thing to do. As luck would have it, Inspector Gregson had had enough presence of mind to figure out it might be a good idea to keep track of Sherlock’s movements via GPS (Mycroft might have had something to do with that, but that’s really not here not there) while he was unofficially working cases and he had realized something was wrong soon enough, sending a team to back him up (or rather rescue him). Sherlock was apparently fine, but Mycroft had figured there’s no harm on checking on him and besides, he had been already up and he had known he wouldn’t be getting any more sleep tonight so…

Well. It seemed perfectly logical.

So now he’s here, standing next to his brother who is doing his very best to attempt to escape the paramedics, who are in turn doing their best to get him to keep still so they can check on him. He does look mostly uninjured; a couple of bruises and a long lash on his side, but nothing life-threatening.

He was quite lucky this time.

Mycroft is opening his mouth to say as much when someone else beats him to it. “What the bloody hell were you thinking, Sherlock? You can’t keep doing that! You’re going to get yourself killed one of these days!” 

Mycroft’s heart skips a beat, having recognized the voice immediately, despite his back being turned to the newcomer. He doesn’t think Greg has recognized him, busy as he is yelling at his little brother, sounding honestly concerned and perhaps a tad panicked.

“I was perfectly fine,” Sherlock argues darkly. “I just-”

“Fine? Fine?! He had you all tied up already; had we arrived a minute later-”

“But you didn’t, so-”

“Damn it, Sherlock, this is serious! You can’t keep pulling this crazy stunts.” Sherlock murmurs something under his breath and Greg huffs. “Alright, if not for you, do it for me. Based on what you’ve told me about your brother, do you really think I want to be the one delivering the news that you got yourself injured during one of my cases?”

What exactly has Sherlock been telling Greg about him? Mycroft is curious, naturally, but- “Rest assured, Sergeant, I know how stubborn my brother can be. If he injured himself, I’ll know you’re not at fault.”

The other man tenses involuntarily and Mycroft wonders if it would have been better to have left without making him aware of his presence. But he found himself incapable of keeping quiet; not when Greg was here, so near and yet so far. He knows he shouldn’t, he had convinced himself he wouldn’t and yet-

“Mycroft?” Greg says, slowly turning around to face him. He looks surprised, but pleased and Mycroft’s treacherous heart skips another beat while his stomach flips funnily.

A most unpleasant sensation, truth to be told.

He nods his head in greeting and they stand there in silence, staring at one another as if the rest of the world had stopped existing. Mycroft’s heart is attempting to make up for its skipped beat by beating erratically, making him feel a little light headed. Or that could be the lack of breathing too, he supposes.

“You know each other?” Sherlock asks, sounding honestly puzzled, breaking the spell. Mycroft turns to him, intending to say something, although he has no clue what, but his brother seems to come to his own conclusions right then, judging by his expression. “Oh. Oh! Ugh. Really?”

Mycroft rolls his eyes dramatically and Greg blushes, making Mycroft smile fondly at him. Then he realizes what he has just done and forces himself to stop smiling, with relative success. 

“You never told me your last name,” Greg murmurs, perhaps a tad embarrassed and Mycroft curses inwardly as his stomach does another silly flip. 

“Yes, well…” Mycroft trails off, unsure of how to finish that sentence. In all truth, he’s not quite sure why he didn’t and he supposes it doesn’t matter anyway. “It hadn’t occured me you might know my brother.”

Greg is staring at him curiously, head tilted to the side. “Do you- can you do the deduction thing too? Is that how you knew I worked for the Yard?” 

_ The deduction thing,  _ Mycroft thinks with a sneer, but he realizes the man didn’t mean it in a bad way and so he forces himself to smile pleasantly. Greg smiles back and Mycroft’s stomach flutters unpleasantly, reminding him why seeing this man again was a bad idea.

“We probably should be going,” he says, grabbing Sherlock by the forearm and starting to drag him away. Sherlock protests, in autopilot he suspects, since he seems to be busy still processing his new findings.

“Wait!” Greg calls and, against his better judgement, he does, half turning to him as if pulled by a magnet. The Sergeant bites his lip, as if unsure of what he wants to say and Mycroft waits with bated breath. “I… umm.. so, I was thinking… maybe we could see each other again?”

Mycroft attempts to consider this, with the firm intention of saying  _ no _ , but his own desperate want betrays him. “My place?”

Greg blushes once more as Sherlock makes a disgusted noise, shouting something about too much information, but Mycroft ignores him, much more interested in Greg’s answer.

“I- Listen, last time I wasn’t… I had just broken up with my long time girlfriend and I was in a bit of a bad place so I didn’t think… but it’s been two months and I haven’t been able to get you out my mind so I was thinking… would you like to go out for dinner, or something?”

Oh. Oh, that sounds serious. The expectation of such date is probably something other than just more  _ mind blowing  _ sex, so he doesn’t think that’s a good idea. He has reasoned with himself a hundred times why he shouldn’t attempt to reach out for the man, he had told himself a hundred times he could never have an actual fulfilling relationship with him and so it was better not to try to contact him, but now that  _ fate _ seems to have put them at the same place at the same time-

“I really don’t think-”

“What my brother means to say is that he’d be delighted,” Sherlock interrupts, startling Mycroft by his sudden outburst. “I’ll- he’ll-  _ someone _ will text you with a date and a convenient location. Have a nice evening, Sergeant,” he finishes, gripping Mycroft’s forearm forcefully and pushing him along, not allowing him to say another word and Mycroft is too surprised to properly react anyway .

What the hell has just happened?

He gulps as he realizes his brother has sort of agreed on a date on his behalf. And while under other circumstances he’d be angry or frustrated or something like that, right now he feels nothing but elation.

Somehow, he’s not convinced that’s a good thing.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thoughts anyone?  
> I had considered ending this with that last scene, but I do think I’m going to write at least another chapter. Mostly because I enjoy writing insecure!Mycroft a little too much :P  
> I’m a little concerned that the last scene felt a bit too forced, but I wanted to end the chapter on a more or less positive note. Or as positive as I can, considering my love for angst ;)  
> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you thought!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here’s a new chapter! Since I now don’t have access to AO3 at work (the sheer injustice of it!), I’m going to have to update this from my phone so… I apologize in advance if the formating is a bit bad…  
> Enjoy!

“You’re not going to call, are you?” Sherlock asks, sounding more resigned than anything else and Mycroft doesn’t deign to answer, instead taking a long sip from his glass of wine. To think he had been doing so well and now… “Why?”

_ Why? _ how does he explain to his little brother that he’s just not meant to have these things? How can he possibly explain that he doesn’t want a taste of something precious that he knows he won’t be able to keep? How to explain all this without making Sherlock feel like he’s doomed too, that neither will ever have what they both so desperately crave? Company, understanding, friendship.

Love.

“It won’t work out,” he declares calmly, taking another sip from his drink, staring  outside the window absentmindedly. He hears Sherlock squirming on his seat, no doubt wanting to say something, but Mycroft knows his brother knows he’s right. 

It won’t work out. 

“You can’t know for sure,” Sherlock murmurs finally and there’s such conviction in his tone that Mycroft has to look in his direction, surprised by his vehemence. “You can’t know for sure unless you try. If something is worth it… why wouldn’t you take the chance?”

Mycroft has to look away, overwhelmed by the emotion reflected in his brother’s eyes. They’re completely different and that’s why Sherlock will find someone someday, while Mycroft will remain alone forever more: Sherlock wears his heart on his sleeve, even if he takes great pains to ensure no one sees it, while Mycroft…

Well. He’s not sure he even _ has  _ a heart. “But you’re wrong, brother mine,” he answers, staring outside the window once more. “I do know for sure. And I won’t do like Mummy and drag some poor innocent sod into my misery.”

“Mycroft, our parents-”

“Did you know Father was planning on leaving her just before she got pregnant with you?” he asks, desperate to escape the conversation and so not caring about whether or not this revelation might hurt his brother. “Seven years, Sherlock. Father endured her coldness for seven years for my sake, but it became too much for him, particularly because I was so much like her. After you were born… you weren’t like us. So he couldn’t leave you on your own.” He shakes his head, feeling horrified at the mere prospect of turning out like his mother. “I’m a lot like Mummy, but I’m not cruel enough for that.”

He can feel Sherlock’s eyes burning into him, measuring his words. “I told you before- you’re not like her.” He stands up, picking up his discarded coat and putting it on as an armour. “And neither am I. I do care and I care for you, so I’ll prove you wrong.”

With that he’s gone, slamming the door after him, but Mycroft barely notices.

He has much to think about for that.

* * *

 

He’s not going to call.

He’s not.

He doesn’t even have his number, so even if he wanted… he couldn’t.

Except that that’s just an excuse. He has far too many resources at his disposition, far too many people dying to do him a favour, for that excuse to really work. Besides, if he really wanted to, he could always ask Sherlock. 

But he doesn’t, so he won’t.

It’s for the best.

He’s having a hard time convincing himself of that.

* * *

 

“Ah, you’re finally home!” Sherlock exclaims cheerfully, grinning madly no doubt, but Mycroft can’t spare even a glance in his direction, his eyes fixed on the man sitting on his couch. Sherlock appears in his line of vision, smiling creepily as he expected and Mycroft turns to glare at him.

“Sherlock, what have you done?”

“Nothing you wouldn’t have done for me,” his brother informs him very seriously, his eyes fond and Mycroft feels his own glare softening. “Besides, what’s a little kidnapping between friends?”

Mycroft takes a deep breath. “You don’t get to complain when I kidnap one of your dates,” he says, mostly to say something, feeling resignated to his fate. From his place on the couch, Greg scoffs, rolling his eyes dramatically.

“Can you take this off now, then?” he asks, lifting his hands, the light catching on the shiny metal of the handcuffs. “And I’ll have you know that you could have simply asked me to come.”

Sherlock shrugs casually, producing a small key from one of his pockets. “Have a fun evening!” he says, with a wink that makes Mycroft’s blood run a little cold. Boy, his brother can be quite disturbing when he gets his mind into it.

He moves to the couch, so he can uncuff his  _ guest _ as his brother leaves the flat, somehow managing to lock the door behind him. Mycroft makes a mental note to upgrade his security so his brother may not hack into it so easily and then offer a small smile to his unexpected companion. “I’m truly sorry about my brother’s behavior,” he apologizes, finally undoing the lock.

“Would you believe this isn’t the craziest thing he has done to me?” Greg asks goodnaturedly, smiling. “But I meant it. I would have come if he had asked. I… I was actually worried you weren’t going to call, so-”

“I wasn’t,” Mycroft confesses, sitting primly on the couch. “I… I don’t think this is a good idea.”

“Oh,” the other murmurs, sounding dejected. “I understand. It’s fine, really, I don’t… I realize we don’t…”

“It’s not you,” Mycroft interrupts. 

“It’s you?” Greg asks, self deprecatingly. “That’s like the oldest line in the book. Don’t worry, though, I understand.”

“No, you don’t,” Mycroft says, grabbing him by the wrist, preventing his escape. Something is twisting inside him at the sight of the other man’s misery and that sits ill with him. “I’m not… I don’t do this. Relationships, I mean.” He scowls at nothing in particular, annoyed once more at his brother’s meddling. “I’ve had a few boyfriends but it never… I don’t… well, you saw me the other night. I’m usually lost in my own mind and that’s not exactly fair on anyone, I suppose.”

Greg stares at him for a long while, as if contemplating his words. Mycroft does his best not to squirm on his seat, but it’s difficult. He feels… exposed, somehow, a tad  _ vulnerable  _ perhaps. Admitting his own shortcomings is never a pleasant experience and in fact he rarely ever lets anyone know he has them, so he doesn’t understand-

His thoughts get abruptly interrupted by a hand coming to rest on his knee and he freezes like a deer caught in the high lights. His heart is beating erratically, his body responding to the touch despite how innocent it is and he looks up, his eyes meeting his companion’s.

“If that’s the case… you might remember how last time went, right?” Mycroft blushes and immediately chides himself for his silly reaction, but the other man just smiles reassuringly, sliding closer. “Let me try. I… This might sound crazy, but I just feel, deep in my bones, that this could be something great. Please, let me try.”

He shouldn’t. He wants to, but he shouldn’t. Why risk heartbreak? He’s perfectly content as he is; sure, he’ll continue torturing himself for a few weeks (or months, or years, or decades) about what could have been but surely that’s better than spending the rest of his life grieving a love lost?

He stares at Greg’s eyes for a while longer, biting onto his lip. He’s infatuated right now and he knows that that will just continue to grow. With time, infatuation will turn into actual affection and that will turn into love. But Mycroft doesn’t know how to go about love, so he’ll just mess up and then-

“Alright,” he whispers, his voice barely audible. Funny, how easily this man makes him change his mind.

He can’t decide if that’s a good thing or not.

* * *

 

“Maybe we should take this slow,” Greg is saying, but he doesn’t stop nibbling at Mycroft’s jaw and so he doubts he has any real intention to slow down. In any case, Mycroft doesn’t think it matters and he says as much.

“Little late for that,” he argues, struggling to pull his partner’s shirt off. “I want you now,” he adds, pulling the other into a bruising kiss. “You have no idea… want you so much…” He’s aware he’s far from eloquent and while normally he’d be embarrassed by his eagerness, right now he can’t bring himself to care.

“God, Mycroft,” his companion murmurs, finally giving up on taking Mycroft’s clothes off like a civilized person and therefore ripping his shirt open. He blushes and stammers out an apology, but Mycroft just kisses him again, effectively silencing him.

Nothing but getting each other naked  _ right now _ matters.

“Eager, are we?” Greg says between nervous chuckles and Mycroft doesn’t have enough presence of mind to even feel self conscious. Yes, he’s eager, very much so, but then he has spent the last 2 months daydreaming about the last time they were together.

“You’re talking too much,” he complains, helping Greg to take off his pants. “I don’t remember you were this talkative.”

The other laughs and then they’re stumbling onto the bed. They’re both smiling and it strikes Mycroft as most odd. He doesn’t usually feel this elated at the prospect of having sex, not even the last time. The fact that he has an idea of what to expect probably plays a role, but it occurs to him that maybe he’s just actually happy this time around. 

Well. He didn’t see that one coming.

Although, in retrospective, it should have been all kinds of obvious.

Dear god, what has he gotten himself into?

* * *

 

Afterwards, they lie down together in companionable silence.

It’s something Mycroft is definitely not used to, because while he sometimes may sit in silence while in other people’s presence, his mind is never quiet, so he doesn’t get to experience the silence from the outside world. Now though his mind is blissfully blank, nothing but contentment pouring out of him.

He could get used to this.

He shouldn’t, but he could.

“I’m rather glad Sherlock decided to meddle,” Greg tells him suddenly, half turning towards him, looking oddly nervous. “I… I must confess many times I started making my way towards your flat after work, just to change my mind midway. I did want to see you again, but I wasn’t sure if the feeling was mutual.”

Mycroft’s heart skips a beat and he nods tightly, feeling a knot on his throat, which is, of course, completely ridiculous. “As I said… I wasn’t sure seeing you again was a good idea. I wanted to, but… past experience showed it was unadvisable.”

Greg chuckles, a hand coming to rest on the nape of his neck and Mycroft slides closer, basking in warmth touch. “I don’t have an exactly good track record with relationships either,” he tells him softly, pressing a chaste kiss against the corner of his mouth. “I’m a bit of a workaholic, I’ve been told.”

Mycroft huffs. “You’ll find I’m even worse.” Another kiss, this one lingering but just as soft. “I don’t think that’ll be a problem.” He runs a hand down Greg’s spine and the other man shivers deliciously, pressing their bodies closer. “I can be… quite distant, at points. Sometimes I don’t talk for days straight and sometimes I don’t listen a single word being said to me. I may also have to disappear for weeks or even months without any notice.”

“Are you trying to discourage me?”

_ Never,  _ Mycroft thinks earnestly. “It’s only fair you know what you’re getting into. And if you decided you didn’t want to… well, I wouldn’t blame you.”

The other hums thoughtfully. “We don’t really know each other that well but there’s something… I really want to give us a try. It might not work, of course, but it’s worth giving it a chance, don’t you think?”

“I’m not one who likes to deal with uncertainty,” Mycroft confesses quietly. “It’s awfully frustrating.”

Greg laughs; a full belly laugh that makes his whole body shake and Mycroft, against his better judgement, pouts. “I’m afraid there’s really no other choice when it comes to relationships,” he says, kissing Mycroft’s nose playfully. “But I can promise you I’ll do my very best to try to make it work.”

It’s the best he can ask for, but the doubt lingers. Still, they’re already here and it would be poor manners to kick the man out of his bed after having agreed to a relationship with him just an hour ago. 

Besides, he does enjoy Greg’s presence in his bed and he thinks he’ll also do his very best to ensure he remains there for very a long time. “Are you going to stay the night?” he asks, perhaps a tad shyly, not looking at his partner directly, not wanting to appear too clingy. 

“Do you want me to?” Greg asks, tone soft and full of affection and Mycroft’s treacherous heart skips another beat. He feels happy and bone deep satisfied, so he just nods, pressing himself closer. “Good,” his lover says, tightening his grip around him.

It’s very good, indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And… that’s it! (I think?)  
> Well, no. I’m going to write a silly epilogue, mostly because there’s an idea running wild inside my head and instead of writing a new fic for it, I think it’d be better to add it here (it’s not like I need yet another WIP, really, although I’ve already started sketching one)  
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed it! Let me know what you thought?  
> Thanks for reading!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here’s the promised epilogue. Since I can’t access AO3 at work anymore, I’ve gotten a new computer and my daughter is staying at my in-laws’, I figured it’d update during the weekend ;) Just something short and silly ;)  
> Enjoy!

Greg wakes up to the sound of the front door opening.

For a few seconds, he doesn’t recognize his surroundings, which make him tense involuntarily. He looks around the room, startled and is quite surprised by the warm weight on the other side of the bed, an equally warm arm holding him close and then the memories of the night before start coming back.

Right. He’s at Mycroft’s flat.

He can’t help smiling, curling closer to his lover. Mycroft is deep asleep, apparently dead to the world, but based on what he knows about him (both from what he has actually observed and the horror tales Sherlock has told him), he doubts he’s that deep asleep.

He allows himself to run his fingers through his partner's hair, messing it up a bit. He smiles softly to himself, thinking he could really get used to this. It’s pleasant and, if he must be honest with himself, not something he had experienced ever before. Oh, sure, sleeping with someone you care about is always  _ nice,  _ but he had never felt this bone deep contentment.

This could be indeed something truly great.

The sound of the bedroom’s door opening startles him out of his daydreams. On instinct, he reaches for his gun on the night table, only to remember Sherlock took it when he “kidnapped” him earlier. His mind goes on overdrive, trying to come up with a way of escaping, looking around himself for something he can use as a weapon and so it takes him a few seconds to pay attention to who their midnight guest actually is.

“Sherlock?!” he exclaims, sitting up and the younger man makes a disgusted face.

“Ugh. Now I’ve seen more of you than I ever wanted to, Lestrade,” he announces seriously, taking a seat on a fancy chair on the far side of the bedroom. Greg stares at him, uncomprehendingly and Sherlock rolls his eyes. “I’m going to need some brain bleach,” he adds dramatically and next to him, Mycroft lets out a long suffering sigh.

“What do you want, brother dear?”

“Well, first of all, I’d like to point out I was right and you were wrong,” he says calmly and Greg can practically see Mycroft’s eyeroll. “And, since I went out of my way to make you see the error of your ways, you owe me big time.”

“I’m not stealing dangerous chemical materials for you,” Mycroft declares, sitting up and earning himself another disgusted sound from Sherlock. “Nor am I giving you clearance to do something illegal or break into a secret government facility.”

Greg lets out a chuckle, amused by the brothers’ well rehearsed bickering. Mycroft looks in his direction for a second and they share a smile full of complicity. Sherlock lets out another displeased sound.

“You’re no fun at all,” the younger man declares, crossing his arms over his chest. “I shall think of an appropriate offering, then.” Mycroft huffs, but Sherlock has turned his attention to Greg. “Now, you- you could get me unlimited access to Bart’s morgue, right?”

Greg blinks. “I… don’t think so? I mean, I could introduce you to one of the forensics in charge, but-”

“That’d do,” Sherlock announces, standing up abruptly. “I’ll be one my way, then. Have a pleasant evening, gentlemen,” he says, heading towards the door and Greg just stares at him, wondering what the hell was that about. “Oh, just one last thing, Sergeant.” Greg raises an eyebrow questioningly and Sherlock smiles menacingly. “Do remember that I managed to kidnap you and broke into my brother’s supposedly unbreakable flat, not once but twice. All things considered, I’d advise against hurting my brother.”

And with that he’s gone, the door quietly closing after him. “Did… did he just give me the “hurt him and I’ll kill you” talk?”

“It’d seem so,” Mycroft agrees quietly, smiling like a proud parent in the direction Sherlock disappeared. “But I wouldn’t worry, Sergeant. You can always bribe him with a puzzling case.”

Greg stares at him, unblinking, perhaps a tad terrified and then he realizes the other man is joking. He shakes his head, letting out a small nervous chuckle and pulls his lover into a long kiss that Mycroft is only happy to reciprocate.

So what if he has somehow ended up with a sort of crazy brother-in-law?

It’s more definitely worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that’s it! The actual end to our little tale.  
> This last chapter is just a little silly thing that came to my mind after seeing a post on tumblr on something Sherlock says during his best man’s speech, something about having the keys of his brother’s flat and on a totally (un)related subject how easy to kill Lestrade is. So… yeah, well, silly :P  
> I hope you enjoyed it my dears! I know I had fun writing it ;) Since I really want to write more Mystrade, it’s likely I’ll start a new WIP soon enough, but well… I do have 3 other fics I should probably finish first (and a few others that I should finish at some point, probably)  
> Thanks for reading, for the kudos and for the comments! Please let me know what you thought!  
> You can also visit me on [tumblr](http://ylc1.tumblr.com/) to find more of my writing, some fics recs and random content ;)

**Author's Note:**

> So, thoughts anyone?  
> I’m going to leave this marked as finished because it does work as a one-shot, although it’s likely I’ll add more at some point (or maybe not). It’ll depend entirely on whether or not another plot bunny gets a hang of me and how much progress I make in my other WIPs ;) I might even try for some actual smut, although maybe not since I blush furiously every time I try and my co-workers quickly get concerned :P  
> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you thought, pretty please?  
> English is not my native language, so any mistakes you find, please point them out!  
> You can also find me in [tumblr](http://ylc1.tumblr.com/)


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